


Low and Slow

by NachoDiablo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Eggs, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22035097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NachoDiablo/pseuds/NachoDiablo
Summary: Steve makes Sam breakfast on a snowy morning.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48
Collections: SamSteve Small Gifts





	Low and Slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrs_d](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/gifts).



> Written for SamSteve Small Gifts 2019. Thank you mrs_d for being such an awesome co-mod! <3

Steve held his breath as he poured a careful splash of cream into a mixing bowl. Five eggs already sat at the bottom of the bowl. He’d only broken two yolks; not that it mattered for scrambled eggs, but it didn’t hurt to practice. A few liberal pinches of salt and pepper were added, then he whisked the eggs together with a fork. Only a small amount of egg sloshed over the side. Steve counted that as a success, and gave himself a silent pat on the back for adding an extra egg in the first place. A good tactician knows how to identify and prepare for setbacks.

He eyed the frying pan on the front burner with suspicion. The pat of butter he’d added a minute ago had melted against the cast iron, but it wasn’t sizzling too much. Steve grabbed the padded handle and tilted the pan, back and forth, so the melted butter spread across the bottom. The eggs flowed from the bowl to the pan in one swift movement. Steve set the empty bowl down, grabbed his spatula, and pushed it through the eggs, edge to middle, then back again. Low heat and slow movements, that’s how all the cooking blogs said to do it, if you wanted to preserve the fluffiness of the eggs, which Steve did.

Sam deserved the fluffiest of breakfasts this morning. He’d spent the last two weeks on the road with Rhodey, on grueling missions with little sleep and no decent food, only what they could scrounge up from vending machines on their infrequent motel stops. Yesterday he’d returned to their apartment, grimy and grim faced and utterly fatigued.

Steve hadn’t asked many questions about how the mission had gone, he’d merely helped Sam out of his stealth suit and into the shower. They hadn’t talked as Steve had lathered up the loofah with coconut body wash and sloughed it across Sam’s arms and shoulders. Afterwards, Steve had settled Sam onto their bed and given him a massage, being sure to work the heels of his palms against the tightest spots on his traps and lower back. Sam had drifted off mid-massage, and Steve had made sure to tuck their softest comforter around him as he dozed.

Today, they had no plans. Barring an emergency, there would be no plans for the entire weekend. Steve had felt the first snowflakes of the season melt against his nose as he walked back from the bodega earlier that morning. It wasn’t supposed to storm, but a few light flurries drifting against their window as they curled up in front of the fire and watched cheesy television sounded nice.

The coffee maker beeped. Steve ignored it; the coffee would keep, and it would be good. That was the one area where Steve was confidant in the kitchen. He would have used the French press, but he hadn’t wanted to fuss around with the electric kettle. The eggs required his full concentration. Back and forth the spatula pushed. Edge to middle. Low and slow.

Etta James’ dulcet tones crackling to life through the living room speakers attempted to interrupt his focus, but Steve would not be deterred. He kept his eyes fixed on the pan, though his super soldier ears perked as the soft padding of feet against tile got louder.

Two strong arms wrapped around his middle. Sam’s breath sighed against his neck as he rested his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “What’s this?” Sam’s voice was raspy with sleep, but Steve could hear the smile, even as his gaze did not waver away from the eggs.

“Breakfast,” Steve said with a note of pride. The eggs were thicker now, forming soft mounds in the pan. “Huevos rancheros.”

“Wow,” Sam said. He swayed his hips to the music ever so slightly, moving Steve along with him. “What’s the special occasion?”

“You,” Steve replied. He grinned as Sam chuckled against his shoulder. “You won’t be laughing when it’s all ready, I got this covered.” He pointed to the back burner, where a small pot of prepared Goya rice mix sat with the lid tightly in place. “Rice is ready to go.” One hand gestured to the counter. “Avocado and queso fresco. Tostadas and pico de gallo.” 

“Mmm,” Sam murmured. “You got the spicy pico?”

“Of course,” Steve said. “And I restocked all your hot sauces while you were away.”

“And the eggs?”

“The eggs,” Steve proclaimed, “will be perfect. I’m cooking them like the experts do. Low and slow.”

“Low and slow,” Sam mused. Their hips still swayed together. “Is that how it is?”

“Yeah.” Steve rested his head against Sam’s. “That’s how it is.”

“What about the beans?”

Steve’s hips stilled. “Shit.” The can of refried beans was still on the counter where he’d placed it when he’d gotten back from shopping.

“Don’t worry,” Sam said with a yawn. “I can toss ‘em in the microwave.”

“Not yet.” Steve moved the finished eggs off the hot burner and began to sway his hips again. Sam’s arms were still wrapped around Steve’s middle, and Steve rested his own hands on top of them. “We got all day. No need to rush.”


End file.
